


Interlude II

by AnnetheCatDetective



Series: Interludes [2]
Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23412652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: Still pre-AIOS-- Jack's errand, his return to the cell, and some conversation.
Relationships: Jack Walker/Llewellyn Watts
Series: Interludes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679167
Comments: 24
Kudos: 57





	Interlude II

“Sorry I’m running so late, Mama.” He leans in to kiss her cheek, comes into the house. “And I can’t stay long, I promised I’d help a-- help with--”

And everything is so normal and he could let it be… he can’t tell her everything. But… he has to tell her something.

“Actually, Mama-- I-- Owen’s died.” He says. “He was-- someone broke into his house during a party, some-- someone used the party as a cover, or a distraction… I don’t know if he caught them stealing, or if they meant to kill him and they took him aside to… I don’t know, but he-- but he’s gone.”

“Oh, Jackie, sweetheart, I’m sorry.” She gathers him into her arms, leading him to the davenport where he sits, folded over, his head on her shoulder. “Your friend…”

“We had a falling out.” He admits. It’s been long enough since he’d mentioned Owen-- but then, she always could remember the names of his friends. “I was going to apologize. I just… thought we could be friends again. And I… I didn’t get to see him, before he… I-- I was assisting the police, with their investigation. Just… with what I knew about what he kept that might be missing. I couldn’t think of anyone who might have done it, but I… I don’t know. Maybe I helped. The-- the detective said I had, but I don’t know if what I could give him was even right, if it had anything to do-- Owen was good at making enemies. I never knew he was this good.”

She strokes his hair a while, and lets him work through the moment. His mother’s cat winds around his ankles, he drops an absent hand down to let her rub her face into-- though she makes a complaint when he doesn’t scratch behind her ears as he normally does. 

“I’m sure you did. Whatever the result… you did what you could for him. That’s all anyone can do.”

“I just… I wish I could have seen him again. When we fought before… I was unfair to him. He… he was a good friend, and I-- I was unreasonable, I suppose. I didn’t like some of his other friends. Maybe I was just… They weren’t all bad, but they weren’t… I don’t know. And I wanted the two of us to do more without some of the others around. Without _one_ of them around, really. I don’t know. I… I don’t think he had anything to do with it, a part of me wishes he had, just because then it would mean I wasn’t being stupid, taking against him.”

It’s more complicated than that, more complicated than he can say. That he hated Seburn for taking his place? That he’d been so angry with Owen for choosing Seburn over him? There’s no way to put it that won’t be too clear. But he had asked Owen to make a choice. He’d thought the choice was obvious. He’d allowed enough philandering. Owen wandered from bed to bed, or had other guests, and it didn’t _mean_ anything… they were occasional things. Flings. It was only fair-- Owen had given up enough of his previous lifestyle for him, but he was a certain way with all his close friends, and it hadn’t seemed fair to ask him to do differently, when he was happy to make compromises for Jack. And he had compromised-- there were a lot of things he stopped doing, with a lot of men, because Jack asked it of him. It had only seemed fair to give certain closer friends a pass on certain activities, even when they became more serious about each other. But then Seburn was… Seburn was a _beau_. He’d started spending more time on him, and more time, having him around when Jack was _there_. Jack _cooked_ for him some nights, brought food over to Owen’s kitchen and made him his meals on weekends, took _care_ of him. Listened to him talk about his stamps night after night, rubbed his back, shared his dreams with him, and… and he had done for weeks, when Seburn took his place. Suddenly Seburn was spending the night, spending the weekend, and Jack… 

He’d thought he was owed some consideration. It wasn’t that Seburn was younger, prettier-- he wasn’t. So he couldn’t understand what it was. That Seburn didn’t ask too much, when he had? That they shared some passion he could not? It’s true, despite his attempts at sharing in Owen’s joys, he didn’t really understand his hobby. He hadn’t thought it mattered, he’d thought it was more important that he was willing to listen, but perhaps Seburn had shared that passion in a way he could not, or a different passion he didn’t even know about. It had hurt… it still hurts, to remember it. It hurts more not to have been able to make amends. He wouldn’t have taken up with Owen as lovers again, but it would have been nice to call him a friend. He did miss his friendship, even as he learned not to miss the pains of being in love with him. He wasn’t always the easiest lover, but he’d been a _good_ friend. As a friend, he’d been among the _best_.

“Oh, sweet boy…” She tuts. “You weren’t being stupid. Sensitive, maybe. I don’t think that’s a weakness, Jack. I think you’ve always had a big heart. I think it’s one of the best things about you, that you’ve always been warm and you’ve always been kind, the world needs that. And it’s always been hard, to be more attached to a friend than they’ve been to you.”

“He didn’t throw me over. I mean, as a friend. Or-- not until I pushed him to… Maybe we would have… maybe it would have been all right. If we could have talked. I… saw him. I can’t believe he’s gone, even though I saw him.”

She pulls one of the throw pillows into her lap-- for a moment he expects the cat to jump up, before he realizes it’s for him. He used to lie with his head in her lap and her hand on his forehead, when he was sick as a child-- sick, or sufficiently sad. Mostly before the age of eight or so… only once, at fifteen, suffering from his first heartbreak, struggling to cry or not cry over a boy who couldn’t love him, his body unsure whether or not to shed tears. 

He’s rather tall for the davenport now, he has to curl up and lie on his side rather than lying out on his back, but… it’s a comfort.

“It’s never easy, when you lose someone important.” She strokes his hair, her voice gentle. Weighed down with sadness. “It’s hard to believe they’re really gone. Sometimes you’ll wake up in the morning and wonder if it was a dream, the loss… but you carry on. You pick up the pieces. You hold onto what you have.”

“I don’t know what I have.” He admits. “I’ve been lonely… I don’t miss Owen’s other friends, or his parties. I don’t even miss-- I miss some things, I miss how things used to be, before, sometimes. And I see people. Other friends. My book club. But I… I wish I could have said something, maybe, I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.”

“Do you want something to eat, before you go?”

“I haven’t got time for dinner.”

“How do you feel about dessert, then?”

A part of him wants to laugh, and he can’t. He pushes himself to sit. “I could have a little time for dessert. I can’t stay too late, though, Mama, really. I promised the detective. He-- he needs me again for something. And… I want to help him. Not-- not everyone would care very much, about… He wants to solve Owen’s murder right. Not everyone would-- not everyone _does_. And Owen deserves that at least.”

He rises when she does, and follows her into the kitchen. He lets her make tea, and he lets himself take some comfort in a cake that tastes like being eight years old again. 

She doesn’t talk about her week, he can’t quite bring himself to ask, he hasn’t much time to listen nor much attention he can pay her. Under the circumstances, he thinks she’ll understand. 

He cuts his trip back to the station a little fine. When he arrives, there’s no constable on duty guarding the cells. Detective Watts is just beyond the door, pacing between the cells-- he lingers in the doorway a moment, watching the way he moves. He seems like he would topple over if he stopped suddenly, leading with so much of himself. Understandably anxious, with what he’d gambled on Jack’s return… and it would have been kinder not to have stood watching him as long as he has, but there is something arresting in the sight of him in motion. And he can bring an end to his agony now.

“Detective?” He says softly, watches him whirl around and come to a slightly-unstable stop. 

“Mister Walker.” It isn’t only relief that floods his face, there is something… softer. Wondering. His voice is low, almost hoarse, but _gentle_. There is something about him which seems… _exceptionally_ gentle, despite his profession. “I-- I’m very glad to see you.”

“You weren’t sure I was coming back, you mean.” He smiles.

“Well-- no. I am not in the habit of staking my career on things I am not reasonably certain of. But… I was beginning to worry you may have been detained past the time I had arranged to have your entryway unguarded.” He shrugs, glancing away-- and then back. 

He has beautiful eyes… No reason he shouldn’t notice that in passing, no point in pretending it isn’t so. Wide-- curiously guileless looking-- and dark… fathomlessly dark. Dark lashes. A serious brow. Mobile, expressive… it’s just that what they’re expressing is difficult to be sure of. Uncertainty-- but if he wasn’t uncertain of Jack’s return, then what is it he’s looking for, and afraid of not finding? Dare he wonder?

“I’m afraid I had a difficult time getting free at home, too.” He flashes a tight smile. “Mothers.”

“Oh.” He swallows. Somehow his eyes widen further. “If you say.”

“Shall I just…?” Jack slides past him-- closer than he needs to. He could tell himself it’s just to see, if the detective reacts the way he thinks he might. Given the looks, given how he’d flinched, at the mention of certain… harsher realities. Given that he’d been willing to ally himself with Jack to begin with, and to trust him this far. He could tell himself he doesn’t do it for his own enjoyment, his own desire to feel a human warmth nearby, someone tall and masculine, even if only for a half a moment, not for the thrill of thinking he could be wanted. Only just to _know_ if it’s possible, not to chase it.

Detective Watts draws himself up to give him the space to pass, and stands still a moment, staring-- is stood still and staring, when Jack enters the cell and turns back to him. He winds up closing the cell door behind himself, before the detective can propel himself back into action. It’s the sound of its closing that gets him moving again, as he hurries over to lock the door.

“A mere formality, you understand.” He says, leaning against the bars, with a little smile.

“I understand.” Jack wraps his hand around a bar, smiles back. 

“It won’t be long. With the missing stamps accounted for, we can move forward with making a case for… well, the actual killer. Whoever that may be.” He scratches at his jaw. “Several viable suspects, I shall be-- interviewing them as they’re brought in, I expect it will all have to wait until morning... I-- You won’t be in here very long.”

“Thank you, Detective. I’ll let you get back to it-- I’m sure I’ve kept you long enough.”

“I’m just-- I’m sorry, that you have to be here overnight.”

“It’s fine. You run a very welcoming establishment.”

“Ah-- oh… Humor.” He wags a finger. “Yes.”

“Yes.” Jack laughs in spite of himself. Not much of a laugh, but… a laugh. He hadn’t felt like he would laugh again in a long time, the night before. Being brought in, he’d wonder if he’d ever laugh again. Even wanting to, at home, something had stopped it in his throat. And now… it’s something. “Very little humor.”

“I admire your spirit. Good evening, Mister Walker.” He pushes off from the cell door and then pauses, licks his lips. “I’ll-- I’ll see you in the morning. Or, I-- Good evening. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Detective Watts.” Jack nods. He watches him go-- he watches him stop at the door and look back over his shoulder, just a moment, scratch at his jaw again before hurrying off.

“What am I, chopped liver?” Glen asks, without opening his eyes. Glen… he’s always been the least objectionable of Owen’s friends, really. Well, perhaps it’s not fair, they weren’t all bad. Maybe he’d only liked Glen for being the one friend who wasn’t in and out of Owen’s bed, before he and Owen had negotiated certain boundaries, back when. 

“Oh, don’t malign chopped liver, now. No, I’m sure he thought you were asleep.”

“Doubt it. I must be losing my looks.” He turns his head, giving Jack a look. “So… who’s using who?”

“It isn’t like that.”

“Then he’s using you.”

“No, he’s _not_.” Jack grinds the words out. “You didn’t see him-- he isn’t like that.”

“Isn’t he? He looks like he’s _like that_ from where I’m standing-- or else he’s willing to let you think he is, if he can get what he wants out of you.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I mean, he’s not… duplicitous, like that. He wants to do the job right, that’s all… and don’t you want him to?”

“I should be the one solving this case. We knew him, _we’re_ the ones who cared, I should be out there finding his killer.”

“Well, you’re not. So don’t get mad at the only other man who seems to want to.”

Glen snorts. “You can’t trust a copper, Jack, take it from a man who knows.”

“He’s different. You’re different, aren’t you? So why can’t you trust-- just a little? I saw him out there, on the case, and I saw him… He’s put more trust in me than a man who’s known me for years now, so what do you want me to say?”

“He asked me to sell our own out. How much sleep do you think he’ll lose, if you swing for this?”

“He doesn’t think it was one of us. And… I don’t know. I think he won’t let me swing.”

“Don’t.” Glen’s voice is soft. “When this is all over, maybe he gets you off the hook and Owen’s killer gets a little jail time and you and I walk away… but you won’t see him again.”

“I didn’t say anything about seeing him again.”

“You didn’t have to. Don’t fall for him.”

“I’m _not_. I hardly know him. I just know… I know he’s doing what he can, that’s all. I trust him to solve Owen’s murder, and I know he has evidence he can use now.” Jack folds his arms, pacing his cell as if he could outpace the accusation. So the detective was good-looking, so were a lot of men. He’s allowed to appreciate that without being accused of falling for a man-- and he’s allowed to cling to what little hope he has left of seeing his freedom. 

“Jack… look, I know I haven’t seen you around since you and Owen… but I mean I know you enough. You want the fairy tale. And you always get burned.”

“Don’t be an ass, Scott.” He moves to his bunk, lies down with his back to Glen. “ _Goodnight_.”

“Oh, at least I rate a ‘goodnight’ from you. Nice to know I matter.”

“You still don’t matter as much as chopped liver.”

“That’s fair.” Glen yawns. “Goodnight, Jack. Look out for yourself.”


End file.
